


Five Families John Winchester Never Had

by cofax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five roads that might have been taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Families John Winchester Never Had

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Vehemently, Hossgal, and Mely for beta. Y'all made it much, much better. And extra special thanks to Juliana, who asked for it originally.

**1\. [sleek]**

"So whattaya think?" the seller asks, waving a hand at the car as if John needs to be reminded what he's looking at.

John shrugs, pursing his lips. "Needs some work." Which is true, but not much: the driver's side rear wheel well is rusting out, and the muffler rattles up a storm. Still, the transmission's in pretty good shape, the frame solid. Someone has taken good care of the old Chevy.

The seller, a Mike Harrison, shrugs in return, as if he really can't give a damn what John thinks. "I can knock a bit off," he says easily, leaning against the porch railing. There's a coffee cup on the step; he doesn't offer John any.

"Huh." John hesitates again, and looks down. "What do you think, Dani? You like it?"

Dani squints against the sun, and John realizes he forgot the sunscreen again: there's a stripe of sunburned skin on the girl's nose, nearly the same color as her hair. "It's big," she finally allows, judiciously. She'll make up her mind slowly, John knows, over the next few weeks. And once she's done, that's it: mules have nothing on Danielle Eleanor Winchester.

"It is that," John agrees. Probably gets about 12 miles to the gallon. He scratches his jaw, and then opens the door again, peering around the interior of the car. The leather upholstery is well-kept, the dashboard has no half-assed "updates" like he's seen in some older cars. It could be a lot worse. "Why you selling it?" he asks, his head halfway under the dash as he looks at the wiring again.

There's a silence, awkward even from this distance. John pulls his head out and peers at the guy.

"It was my sister's."

Mike's about John's age, maybe a little older, with close-cropped blond hair and a polo shirt with a little animal on the chest. Right now, Mike looks like someone just ran over his dog.

"She doesn't want it anymore?" John offers, hopefully. Knowing that won't be the answer.

Mike squints and looks away. "You know that fire over on Maple a couple of months ago? The big one?"

John blinks, and then Dani tugs on his sleeve. "The one with the little boy, Dad!"

_Oh, shit._

"Fu-- oh, man, I'm sorry. I didn't know." It was all over the news for at least two weeks: how the fire started, how the mother must have gotten trapped in the baby's room, the father's grief and rage--he was hospitalized too.

"Yeah," says Mike. "Well, the car was hers, and Derek--" he jerks his head a little, moving his hands around as if he can draw words out of the air. "Derek doesn't want it."

_Derek's in no condition to do anything,_ John thinks. Derek's in a hole, and there's no light at the top. Every day it gets a little darker, a little deeper; yeah, John knows what that's like, maybe a little.

John drums his fingers on the roof, which is colder than he expects, out here in the sun. Well, maybe Mike keeps the old Chevy in the garage until a buyer comes over. When he steps back from the car, giving it one last considering glance, it _gleams_ in the daylight: he wants to run a hand along the hood, smoothing his palm along the glossy paint as if it's a woman's body.

"I'll take it," he says, voice suddenly hoarse. When Mike goes into the house to get the papers, John turns away from Dani and adjusts his pants.

Kitty comes to the door when they bring the car home, leaning against the porch railing, her arms folded across her stained red t-shirt. She's been painting again: even from the driveway John can see a smear of something on her nose.

"This is it, huh?" she says as John climbs out of the car.

Dani bounces out the passenger side and runs up to her. "Isn't she beautiful, Mom?"

"She?" Kitty raises an eyebrow at John. "The car has a gender?"

When John just shrugs, she smiles that smile she had the day he met her, the proprietary one that makes John want to take her into bed and do inappropriate things to the mother of his child. The smile drops away as she considers the car, though: "I didn't think it would be so..."

"Beautiful?" John suggests. "Powerful? Shiny?" The black paint is nearly iridescent in the sun: Mike must have had it washed and waxed just before John answered the ad.

"Cold," answers Kitty, and takes Dani inside for lunch.

*

 

**2\. [abdicated]**

John is going to _kill_ his sister-in-law. Mary's sister or not: she's doomed the next time he makes it to Colorado.

"Dad?" Sammy's voice wobbles over the payphone, attenuated by the storm John's been driving through and the seventeen-hundred-some miles between them. "Aunt Jen said you needed to talk to me?"

Damn it. John didn't ask for either of the boys, but the bitch put Sammy on the phone anyway. "Hey, Sammy," he says, trying to keep his voice calm, fatherly. "How you doing?"

There's a scuffle on the other end of the line, another voice: "Is that Dad? Lemme talk to him! I gotta--"

Santa Rosa, California is a dump in the rain: John stares out through the phone booth window at spreading puddles. Everyone in town knows Meredith Johnson's son killed her and then ran off with her inheritance, but nobody ever found the body. And tonight's the third new moon; someone's going to get hurt soon.

"--an 'S' in depor--compor--in being good," babbles Sammy triumphantly, his words tripping over one another. "Aunt Jen says I can get music lessons next year if I do good in school--"

Dean squawks shrilly in the background, "Cause you're a suckup and a bookworm, you little shithead. You're up her ass so far --" He cuts off suddenly: John hears Jen's voice, sharp with frustration, but can't hear her words.

Meredith's son had a place out on River Road; maybe he buried the body out there? It's been raining for days: even if John does find the grave, it's going to be hell digging it out.

"Dad?" Dean's voice cracks on the word--John somehow missed the phone being handed off. "Dad, when are you coming home?"

_Home_, Dean says, as if the little blue house in Colorado Springs is any place John ever loved. It's just the only place he could think of at the time, the only way to make the hunt possible. He hates Jen's house, with its clean counters and neat cabinets, the stacks of children's books on the shelves in Sam and Dean's room, the piles of toy cars in a milk-crate by the door. All the things Mary should have given them.

Except Dean's voice is breaking, and he probably hasn't played with toy cars in a while.

"I don't know, son," John says. If he moves fast, he can be at the son's old place in half an hour. That'll still give him an hour or so before sunset, before Meredith strikes again.

"Dad," says Dean, dropping his voice to a whisper, "next time you come home, can I--can I go with you?"

Christ, just what he needs on the hunt: to look after some skinny teenager who can't do what he's told, in school or out. John manages not to snort into the phone. "No!" he snaps. "Do what your aunt says," he adds, finally, trying to put all his authority into it.

Mary would never have forgiven him for leaving them with Jen--and Mary _loved_ Jen. But she loved John more.

"But Dad--"

John hangs up. The boys are safest where they are, and Dean'll be fine, once he settles down. They'll be fine.

 

*

 

**3\. [sanguinary]**

Goddamn, he's thirsty. The barn reeks of blood, alcohol, and sex; the vampires are piled on top of one another on the big bed, exhausted from the fighting and feasting and fucking. They're fierce creatures, strong, but short-sighted as a pack of animals. Too short-sighted: they've left John bound but unguarded.

The bodies of the two kids are bundled in the corner, just garbage to be disposed of later. John swallows back the memory of their screaming deaths, and forces his left hand down as far as he can through the ropes.

There: he can just hook one finger through the loop on the end of the pocketknife. Vampires are sloppy--he'll have to remember that. With as much caution as he can summon, he draws the knife from its pocket, flips it around in his hand to open, and begins to saw at the cords binding him.

It takes him less time than he expects to free himself. Once he's standing, he doesn't hesitate: the Colt is on the table next to the big bed. John picks his way silently across the barn, his eyes sharp in the dimness. His machete is on the floor and he wraps his hand around its handle, the blood on it sticky on his palm.

When he stands over Luther, weapon in hand, the rage rises in him, nearly taking him whole. John's shaking with it, but he can't he _can't_, he's got to get the Colt out of here, got to get away. If he starts killing now, he won't be able to stop it.

Still, it's dangerous even taking the prudent road: Luther's hand is right next to the gun, as though it's just fallen away. John holds the machete in the air above his head, ready to swing, while with the other hand he reaches down to the Colt. It's cold: colder than the air in here, somehow; the etchings on the steel burn his fingers. He shoves it into his belt regardless.

The girl curled up to Luther shifts, muttering; John freezes in place, not breathing. She stills. He takes a step back, and then another one, until he's clear of the bed. It's daylight: he's going to be exposed out there, but he has to get out now, while he can.

The barn door squeaks as he edges it open, eyes squinting against the glare. Shit, it's bright out here. Hurts his eyes. He staggers as he comes out into the yard; maybe he lost more blood than he thought.

Maybe.

It doesn't matter. He needs to get to his boys, needs to get the Colt to them. They've got a chance, now, to finish it for good.

John can do this: he can get that far, and then Dean and Sam will take care of it for him. They're Winchesters, they know their duty.

But damn, he's thirsty.

 

*

 

**4\. [annexed]**

That's the house, up there. John pulls over, making sure to park legally, between the lines, not too far from the curb. Can't afford to get a ticket tonight. It's a nice-enough looking place, just a ranch house with a brick facade and a two-car garage. In the side yard John can see a swing set and a sandbox.

Frank and Gina Pirelli have two kids of their own, a boy and a girl, both over ten. They've fostered kids for Douglas County CPS before, and--according to the computer tech John bribed with the last of the insurance money--there have been no complaints about them. So far as it's possible to determine, Sammy and Dean are being well cared for.

Except there are dangers out here in the darkness that the Pirellis don't know anything about, monsters and ghosts and creatures. All the scariest fairy-tales are true. And _something_ is after John's boys: the Pirellis can't protect them from that, whatever it is.

John's done his homework: he even knows the layout of the house, since Pirelli renovated two years ago and had to file plans with the city. The boys will be on the second floor, probably in the second bedroom, with the girl in the third bedroom at the end of the hall next to the bathroom. It's going to be tricky, because there's a good chance Sammy and Dean are sharing with the Pirelli boy.

The yard's kind of overgrown, which is good for John; he sidles along, staying in the shadows, until he's behind the house and out of sight from the street. Flashlight at its lowest setting, he jimmies the window to the laundry room and pops it open with a faint creak. He doesn't hesitate: he's into the house and up the stairs in thirty seconds.

John passes the first bedroom without pausing and stops at the second. It's been nearly two years since he's held his boys, and a year since their last foster-mother died in what the police claimed was a home invasion gone bad. But no human being gutted Frannie Nichols while Dean huddled with Sammy under the basement steps. The cops and CPS won't let him near the boys, won't tell him more than that they're "being looked after" and "getting good care". Which means psychiatrists and drugs; they're not actually safe. Not protected.

The bedroom doorknob turns smoothly and quietly; John eases the door open and steps inside. He was right: all three boys sleep here, in two bunk beds and a single bed against the wall under the window. The rest of the walls are taken up with bureaus and desks; there's a jumble of toys, clothes, and sports gear in the middle of the floor.

He thought it might be hard to find his boys, but it's easy: there are two bodies in the bottom bunk, two heads on the flowered pillowcase. The indirect light of the flashlight illuminates long lashes, a snub nose, a mop of tangled dark hair.

John tugs the blanket down, far enough to get a good look at their faces. God, they've changed. Sam's a _kid_ now, not just a toddler; and Dean? Dean's got a black eye, like he's been in a fight. John breathes out, squats next to the bed, and puts a hand softly over Dean's mouth. "Dean," he whispers. "C'mon, Deano, time to wake up."

Dean's eyelids flutter, and then open slowly. "See? It's me, son." John waits until the boy's eyes are clear, then takes his hand away.

"Dad?" There's no joy in Dean's voice, just confusion.

"That's right, Deano," John whispers. "I need you to be real quiet, okay? I'm gonna get you out of here."

"Oh." But Dean doesn't move. "Where are we gonna go?"

Jesus. John clamps down on the urge to just order the boy out of bed. "Someplace safe, son. Now get dressed while I get your brother up."

Dean climbs out of bed, and starts digging through the clothes on the floor while John bends over Sammy. "Sammy," he says, patting his face. "C'mon, Sammy, wake up." But the boy doesn't react, his head lolling to the side.

"They give him pills," whispers Dean, pulling his jeans on over his pajamas. "For the nightmares."

_Christ._ Okay, then. Might be easier this way, anyway; he swings Sammy up into his arms. "Woof." The kid's a hell of a lot more solid than he was the last time John put him to bed. "Get some clothes for Sammy, too, Dean."

Dean squats obediently, but then hesitates, staring at the floor. "C'mon," hisses John, already at the door. "Dean!" But the boy doesn't move. John can't see his face, but his back is stiff, his shoulders hunched. "Dean." When he still doesn't turn, John strides back across the room and lays his hand on Dean's shoulder. "We have to go, son. It's not safe here."

There's something in Dean's hands: a stuffed toy, maybe a dog. He's clutching it like a lifeline. He mumbles something, not looking up. When John tries to turn him toward the door, he wrenches free. "It is safe!" His voice rises. "Why do we have to--"

John muffles him awkwardly, one arm still supporting Sammy. "Dean, sshhh. Listen to me." He pauses, looking over his shoulder at the other bed; it's too dangerous here. "They can't protect you, son, or Sammy. They don't know how." Jesus, two years: it's a wonder the boy even remembers him. When the boy still refuses to look at him, John adds, in desperation, "The thing that killed your mother is still out there, and it's looking for Sammy. I need your help to protect him." He's trying to reason with an eight-year-old, God help him.

Dean turns over the stuffed dog, tugging at its ears and smoothing its fur. "Impsy," he finally whispers, holding it up. "Frannie gave it to Sammy."

John swallows back a roar of frustration, and instead picks up a backpack from the floor. "Okay, kiddo: we'll bring Impsy too." He holds the pack open while Dean shoves the toy in, and keeps holding it while the boy adds two more stuffed animals, a T-shirt from the pile, and a small cardboard box that rattles a little. At the last moment, as John is straightening, Dean grabs a handful of clothes and a small pair of sneakers, piling them on top of the toys.

When John puts a hand on Dean's shoulder again, this time the boy moves unresistingly to the door. He trips going down the stairs, but John catches him with a hand under his arm, and the only noise is a soft scuffle. John freezes, and they hold their breath for a good thirty seconds, before John leads the way down to the front door. He doesn't bother to relock it once they're outside, just closes it and latches it softly.

Sammy is bundled into the back seat of the car and buckled in without waking, although he murmurs something before falling back asleep. Dean climbs into the passenger seat without a word, the backpack still clutched in his arms. In the glare of the streetlight, his cheeks are wet. John raises a hand, draws it back, then starts the car instead.

"Okay, let's go," he says. And they do.

 

*

 

**5\. [obdurate]**

John rolls in after midnight, eyes bleary from the haul down from North Dakota. He's damn lucky the storm held off: he could feel it all the way, those clouds gathering behind him like soldiers on a ridgeline. His phone rings twice in the last hour before he rolls up the lane to the old farmhouse: both times he answers it just to bark, "I'm on my way, damn it," and drops the phone back on the seat.

It's no surprise to find the lights still on when he pulls up. The Chevy's in the yard, which makes John raise his eyebrows until he remembers that restless spirit over in Osage City. He assumes the Volvo's safe in the barn, protected from the elements in a way that none of his children have been.

The front door is locked and warded. John punches in his passcode and mutters a wisp of Latin to let him through. There's a leather jacket on the coat-rack in the hall, and a duffel on the oak floor, right where John's most likely to trip on it. He rolls his eyes and shoves it into the closet with one foot, while shrugging out of his own coat. It's blissfully warm inside, and something smells of chocolate and butter.

"Lucy, I'm hooome!" Dumb joke, but after twenty years, he's not stopping now.

Dean's sitting on the counter when John comes into the kitchen, swinging his biker boots against the cabinets John spent an ugly three days installing two summers ago. "Hey, Dad," says his oldest, mumbling around a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie. There are four more in his hand, and if John didn't know Dean could run six miles in less than forty minutes, he'd have something to say about that. "That spirit was--"

John ignores him, because he's got an armful of blonde. "You're late, you bastard." Mary tries to look pissed off, but can't keep the expression on her face. So instead of apologizing, he kisses her thoroughly, to a disgusted "Get a room!" from Dean.

They end up backed into the pantry door, John's hands in her hair and one of her legs wrapped over his hip. Dean's gone silent, thank God. "Missed you," John mutters into her mouth. It's been a solid week since she left him, pulling out onto the highway at 0400 because a pediatric nurse in Topeka broke her leg in a car accident.

"You're still late," she replies, with a soft nip, and slaps his ass. "And don't you ever hang up on me again."

"I'm sorry," he says, burying his face in her hair. Jesus, twenty-seven years and she can still do this to him. "I had to do some cleanup afterwards. Been getting sloppy, and you know what Ellen said." It's the truth, if not all of it.

Mary snorts. "Just because Bill can't keep his prints off every damn thing he touches doesn't mean the feds are after _us_." She opens her mouth to add something else, and is interrupted by a yawn.

"Yeah, yeah," John says, and pushes back from the wall, turning to notice that Dean has disappeared. He'll get the debrief in the morning. "Still, wouldn't take much to screw it all up for Sam and Molly, and we can't risk it." He grabs Mary's hand and tugs her with him across the kitchen towards the stairs. "Let's go to bed, Mrs. Winchester. I've got plans for you."

"The cookies--" Mary interrupts, but John keeps pulling her.

"You know Dean's gonna eat them all anyway, and he won't care if they're stale."

In the morning, Mary's already out of bed when John wakes up: he grunts in surprise at the light in the room. It's 0830; later than John's slept in the last two years--if he doesn't count the time the woodswalker got the drop on him and Mary had to drag him back to the truck by his feet.

Showered and dressed, he follows the sound of voices from downstairs. Dean and Sam are in the kitchen. "Morning, Dad!" says Sam, and waves a hand, the other hand occupied with shoveling pancakes into his enormous face. Dean's at the stove, carefully placing blueberries onto perfect circles of batter: a sure indication that Molly's home, too.

The coffee's fresh: John pours a large mug and, slapping his boys on the shoulder, goes looking for his wife. He finds her on the front porch, curled in a blanket on the swinging bench with their youngest. Molly's blowing her nose while Mary rubs her back. When John sticks his head out, Mary meets his eyes and gives him a quick shake: later.

Okay, then. John checks the weather--still dry, but it's going to break soon--and goes back for pancakes. Dean and Sam have eaten almost all of them; John sets the blueberry ones aside for Molly and starts mixing more batter. "What's bothering your sister, Sam?"

Sam shrugs, pouring himself more coffee. He's dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt--he has some kind of interview today. "She wouldn't say much on the drive down, but I think her boyfriend broke up with her."

"He did? Why?" Dean looks equally affronted and relieved; nobody's ever been good enough for his baby sister.

"I don't know for sure, but it's probably the usual." _The usual_ being the Winchesters' unorthodox lifestyle: the secrecy, the weapons, the training, the languages, the mysterious weekends away that turn into unexpected hospital stays. Only one of Molly's boyfriends ever learned the truth, and after three months, he bailed. John's pretty sure Sam's never told anyone, and Dean--well, the less said about Dean and girls, the happier John is.

Dollops of batter sizzle on the griddle. "Sam, get your mother and sister."

There's a brief hesitation; John looks up to see Sam standing anxiously at the door, forehead furrowed. "Dad, I've got this thing--"

"Make the time," John orders, and turns back to the pancakes. When the door closes behind Sam, John says to the griddle, "What did you get?"

"Ash didn't have much," Dean says rapidly, "a few hits in Oregon and west Texas, maybe. What'd Bobby say?"

John begins to answer, then shuts his mouth when Mary, Molly, and Sam come trailing back into the kitchen. Pancakes are served out--Dean takes another helping--and John eats half of what's on his plate before Mary nudges him meaningfully.

He takes a last swallow of coffee before putting the mug down. "Right. Okay, listen up."

Four sets of eyes obediently fix on his face. God, how are they going to do this? These are his children, his _babies_\--it doesn't matter that they're good at it, maybe the best. Dangerous, smart, sharp fighters, all of them, from Dean's wildness to Sam's insight to Molly's tactical skill--they're still his children. He wants to lock the doors, salt the lintels, and keep them all inside.

But Mary's blue eyes are on his, warming and supporting him. She knows the stakes as well as anyone does, she knows what the risks are. And his children are adults now: they deserve to make their own choices, even little Molly, who looks so delicate in her father's old Marine sweatshirt.

John pushes the plate of pancakes away, and looks at each of them in turn, before he begins to speak. "Twenty-two years ago we learned the truth about the world, and your mother and I raised you in that knowledge, gave you the tools to survive it. Even taught you to fight it."

From his seat, he can see out the windows on the west side of the house, can see the clouds gathering. The sky is lowering, grey thunderheads piling up in the distance: it's going to be a hell of a storm.

"Now something's coming, something bad. We've seen the signs: Sam's dreams, Missouri's cards, freak storms and sudden deaths and a rash of possessions like nothing Bobby's ever seen before." Molly pales and grabs at Sam's arm; he murmurs something to her, rubbing her shoulder. Dean looks intent, eager; Mary solemn. "It's gonna be bad."

John hesitates, and Mary puts her hand on his thigh. "You've got a choice," she says to their children. Their soldiers. "You don't have to fight this, whatever it is that's coming--but your father and I will be. And we're stronger together: we're strongest as a family."

The kids exchange a look, something John can't interpret: Sam raises an eyebrow and Dean nods. "Dad," says Molly with the infinite superiority of the college freshman, "we know already. Ash's been sending me stuff for weeks."

"Besides, like Dean was gonna gather intel and not tell us?" Sam adds, with a smirk. "C'mon, Dad."

"Sorry," Dean shrugs, when John turns to glare at him. But he's not sorry; none of them are. They're smug and triumphant and not going anywhere. John grabs Mary's hand and squeezes: Jesus, what did he do, to deserve this family?

"Well," says Mary. "Guess that's it, then." She stands up, folding her napkin. "So who's doing the dishes?"


End file.
